by Gayle Lynds
"I understand." Sam did. Commitment was something he now reserved for research. "What did you find out?"
"Your little friend is going home. Back to the Big City. Do you know where she lives, because I couldn't find that part out. She's unlisted."
Sam's heart speeded up. He had the information he needed. Mentally, he was already out the door. "Thanks, Emilie. Dinner on me anytime."
"Sam—"
He hung up. He paper-clipped the printouts about Julia Austrian and put them in a file folder. He went into his bedroom and closed his suitcase. He had an odd feeling about this whole situation. He stood unmoving, contemplating. The Amber Room had been missing so many decades it was more myth than reality, and it was priceless. There was a reason he'd received that packet from Armonk now. His odd feeling grew into unease.
No point taking chances. He pulled fake ID from his drawer and went to his closet and put on his shoulder holster. He opened the box in which he kept his Browning 9mm pistol. He checked the weapon and hefted it. He thought a few seconds longer, and then he gave in. He loaded it
Again he stopped. Was he going against Vince Redmond's orders?
Not really. He'd stay far away from Armonk.
If he found the Amber Room and returned it to the public, he'd be a world-class hero. Vince Redmond would have to forgive him the minor infraction of bending rules.
Feeling optimistic, Sam put on his leather jacket with the tight waist—it hid the gun nicely—grabbed extra ammo, his suitcase, and the file folder. It'd take him four to five hours to drive to New York City, depending on the traffic. He needed to stop at his bank first and take cash out of the ATM. As he locked the door behind him, he was whistling again. This time it was "New York, New York."
16
5:06 PM, SATURDAY
NEW YORK CITY
November in New York was a time of gritty optimism. August's torrid heat was over. School was in session. And the holiday season, when the city was festively done up with evergreen and red bows and sparkling candles, was just around the corner. November was the month to gear up for it all, and the brisk air was heady with flashes of warm and friendly humanity. As evening shadows stretched from skyscrapers to historic monuments and tenements, the great city hustled home to overheated apartments and plans for Saturday night.
As the limousine cruised through the city, Julia decided, "We're nearly home."
She was feeling calmer. Norma had been pleasant and interesting the entire trip. The service that had sent her was known for its background checks and the quality of people it referred. Norma might work out as a long-term companion.
In her guise of Norma, Maya Stern agreed. "That must be it at the beginning of the next block."
Julia nodded. She'd gauged the trip from the tunnel to home accurately. She closed her eyes and through her half-open window smelled the powerful odors of hot car motors. Taxi horns blared. A few blocks away an ambulance wailed. Voices babbled, shouted, and laughed. Occasionally music wafted from bars and restaurants as doors opened and closed. And it all echoed against buildings large and small, the clamor trapped in the metropolis's concrete canyons, escaping only at intersections to be trapped again in another part of the cement maze.
She loved Manhattan. As the limo slowed, she found herself caught up in the sound waves crashing into one another, weaving, sinuous, boisterous. They created a constant hum of vitality that must be like the interior sounds of a body—blood pumping, lungs whooshing, the heart beating out a reliable tattoo that meant life—
Her throat squeezed tight. She was thinking again of her mother's death—the sounds and vibrations of her mother's horrible pain. She tried to swallow. The murder whiplashed back through her mind. Would she ever be able to live with it? To know she couldn't have stopped it? To accept she'd never hear her mother's voice again?
She forced herself to breathe deeply, controlling her grief and rage. She was going to be home soon, where every piece of furniture, every scent, every room would reverberate with her mother's presence. She made herself listen to the noisy vitality of the city. It was reassuring in its continuity. She had to prepare herself.
The limo slowed, and Julia's attention shifted with relief to what she planned to do. The phone call she had to make.
The Austrians' maisonette spread across the first two floors of a twelve-story, marble-faced building at Park Avenue and Seventy-second. Near Central Park and the Frick Collection, the stately grande dame was fronted by a sky blue awning and a doorman in matching livery and white gloves. It was a pricey end of town, where neighbors included Hollywood producer Doug Cramer, moviemakers Alan and Hannah Pakula, and author Bill Buckley and his wife, Patricia.
Inside, the apartment echoed with emptiness. Haltingly, Julia walked through it. By the second room she was aware of Norma following her. At first she was startled. The woman was almost soundless, and only Julia's other senses detected her. Then she smiled. Norma was simply acting like a worried mother cat. She'd have to speak to her about being overzealous in her role. Explain to Norma she had to smell the familiar scents and hear the ticking clocks, the murmur of the radiators, the soft thump of her feet on the aged Oriental rugs, and the clatter of her footfalls on the parquet floors. She had to touch the furniture as she passed, pause in the doorway of her home gym with its Nautilus equipment and treadmill.
In the enormous living room she felt an occasional lamp and vase. She stroked the Rodin sculpture at the foot of the spiral staircase. As her fingers ran over it, she could see the sculpture perfectly in her mind—the lithe, muscular body, the strong hands and feet. In her imagination, its ridges and curves weren't cold bronze but dynamic veins and tissue frozen in a moment of perfect dance. Frozen in vibrant life, which was the way she wanted to keep the memory of her mother.
She climbed the spiral staircase. At the top was a small strip of carpeting anchored to the parquet. That was to warn her where she was, so that in her blindness she wouldn't make a mistake and tumble down the steps.
Especially she had to stand in the doorway to her mother's bedroom.
She froze and gripped the doorframe—
In her lightless tunnel, she felt faint at first. And lost. Her eyes filled with tears. Memories rushed through her in a tsunami of heartache and fury. And then she heard her mother's voice chatting from the dressing table. She saw her push her long dark hair back in an elegant French twist. She watched tenderly as her mother smiled. It pierced her to the soul.
"Orion, hello. This is Julia Austrian—" Julia sat behind her mother's desk downstairs in the office, which was off the maisonette's foyer. She had a box of tissues on her lap and resolve in her voice. She'd had Norma look up the number, but she herself had used the phone's keypad, which had both regular and Braille numbers. Now her proprioceptors told her Norma was still hovering in the doorway.
"Julia. My friend. I heard the news. I am . . . we are . . . so sorry." Psychologist Orion Grapolis had lived up on the fourth floor with his wife, Edda, for the past five years. Julia and he had always liked each other. "Poor Marguerite. What a terrible thing that she is gone. Murdered. How are you holding up?"
"I'm holding up okay, thank you. Something else has happened that I need your advice. . . your help for. May I come up to see you?"
Orion paused. She heard regret in his voice. "I am sorry, dear Julia. I would like nothing more than to speak with you at this difficult time, but as it happens we are leaving for vacation. In fact, the car is probably on its way right now. Edda has forbid me to do anything but go to Palm Beach." He had a deep basso voice, booming and somehow sweet.
Julia was desperate. She had to find out what could have happened at her debut that had made her blind. "Hold on a minute, Orion, will you?" She lifted her chin. "Norma, please leave and close the door. I need privacy." She heard a pause, as if Norma were going to object. "Really, Norma. I'm fine. I just need to be alone."
The door closed with a soft click, and the smell of Norma's Magie Noire perfume began to dis
sipate.
Julia asked into the phone, "Can a blind person be hypnotized?"
"Of course. Why not? What it takes is a willingness to relax and let go. And trust, naturally. Did you think you could not be hypnotized because you are blind?"
"As a matter of fact, I did." Her former psychiatrist had told her long ago that hypnosis was only for the sighted, and she'd thought of old movies and gold watches swinging from chains in front of a patient's eyes. Hypnosis must have advanced in the last seven years.
Orion suddenly sounded anxious. "I must go. Edda is calling with impatience in her tones. Please forgive me for not making myself available to you immediately—"
She had to persuade him. On impulse, she turned her back to the door, in case Norma's concern had led her to eavesdrop. She hunched over, cupped her hand around her mouth, and spoke into the mouthpiece: "I got my sight back in London."
She heard his sharp intake of breath. "You did? You can see now? How wonderful. I am so happy for you—"
"No! I can't see! But I've got to. This is imperative. I've got to be able to see right away. Please! Please help me to find out what caused my blindness so I can face it and get back my sight permanently!"
There was silence. She could almost hear the battle inside him—curiosity and a desire to help a friend versus a wife who demanded he take a much-needed vacation.
Then she said the words she'd tried to avoid, had vowed she wouldn't say, but now she knew how she could get away with it and still keep her conscience clear: "Orion, I'm officially hiring you as my therapist. So you can't repeat what I'm about to tell you." Before he could object, she rushed on. "I saw Mom killed. I'm the only eyewitness. I've got to get my sight back!"
"You saw the murderer?" His voice was whispery with shock. "Who knows this?"
"Only Scotland Yard. And you. Please. Isn't there some way you can delay your trip a few hours? I'll pay anything—"
"Julia." He was insulted. "I do not want your millions. If I do this, it is because you are in need. And I am a psychologist."
Again, a pause. She said nothing, hoping, sensing the time had come to push no more.
He said, "I do not know what we can accomplish, but I will give you the evening. You sound ready to work and succeed. Edda will not be pleased that I am delaying our trip until tomorrow. Perhaps when we return you will give us a small concert in our living room. For Edda and myself. Romantic. I will ask her to light all her tall candles, and we will open a fine bottle of pinot noir. Would that be agreeable to you?"
"Orion! How can I thank you? I'll be right up."
"Give me five minutes. First I must persuade Edda not to divorce me."
17
Sensing objects around her, Julia headed across her mother's office and opened the door. Oddly annoyed, she felt Norma to her right then caught a whiff of her perfume. She turned to face her new companion. "I'm going to freshen up, Norma. Then I need you to take me upstairs to a friend's apartment."
"Aren't you tired?" Maya made her voice sound concerned, worried for Julia.
"As a matter of fact, I am."
"Then you should stay here. You can rest. I'm sure you hardly slept last night. I'll make you something to eat. You don't really want to go out."
Again the image of a cat appeared in Julia's mind. But now there were not only the sleek, athletic movements, she also had a sense of the cat on a rock, protectively watching her kittens on the lawn. Hovering.
Suddenly she was irritated. "I appreciate your concern. But you're not responsible for keeping me safe from myself. I expect you to help me do what I ask. That's all." She hesitated, heard the snappishness in her voice. "I'm sorry. I'm not only tired, I'm irritable. But I'm still going to see my friend. After I wash my face, you can take me upstairs."
Behind her, the phone rang. She turned toward it, but Norma—the fleet, swift-footed feline—sped past to snatch it up.
5:32 PM, SATURDAY
THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE
Sam Keeline was just driving into the industrial hub of New Jersey, where oil refineries dotted the landscape like perennial weeds, and the resulting pollution was as accepted as the coming winter. He was making good time from Washington, but he still hadn't been able to reach Julia Austrian on his cell phone. At first there'd been no answer, and then the line was busy.
He smelled sulfur. It made his nose burn. It was night and too dark to see the smog, but he knew it had to be out there. As his car raced along in the fast lane, he focused on talking to Julia Austrian. The questions were piling up in his mind like a deck of cards. He punched the redial button on his cell phone. His heartbeat speeded up when this time the phone rang through.
"Austrian residence." The woman's voice was nothing like what he'd imagined Julia Austrian's to be. It was neutral, as if the personality fueling it were somehow submerged or on hold.
He decided to take a risk. If he asked for "Julia Austrian," not for the familiar "Julia," the speaker would guess he didn't know the famous pianist and might refuse to let him talk to her.
He said, "May I speak to Julia?" An idea occurred to him: "I'm an old friend of Daniel Austrian, her grandfather." Not completely true, but not a total lie.
"You're too late. She's just walking out the door—"
In the background, a woman's voice asked who was calling.
He said, "Tell her I won't take much of her time, but I think her grandfather would've liked me to see her." That one was a whopper. "I can come anytime tonight or tomorrow. Whatever she likes. But tonight's better for me."
Reluctantly the woman repeated the message. And then he heard the answer he'd been hoping for. His heart hammered excitedly into his ears.
"Ms. Austrian says she can see you here at seven o'clock tonight," the woman told him. "Is that convenient?"
He admitted it was.
5:40 PM, SATURDAY
NEW YORK CITY
Julia's mind was on seeing Orion Grapolis, but she was beginning to feel reluctant. For some reason she was nervous, and she felt disloyal. She'd had a fine psychiatrist who'd labored with her three years, patiently trying to help her get over her fear of audiences so she could see, but his diagnosis must've been wrong. Something other than audiences had triggered her blindness. She told herself this wasn't about loyalty. This was about finding someone who could help her.
As she followed Norma through the building's lobby, she described the area's hand-carved cornices and woodwork, the smooth Italian marble laid out in black-and-white rectangles, and the delicate panes of leaded glass. The images came to her automatically, without thinking.
As they stepped into the elevator, Norma asked, "How do you remember it all?"
I see pictures in my brain. Almost photographs. It's how I memorize music—I literally see notes on a staff, although I might have never actually read the piece."
"You've got an unusual memory."
They stepped out onto the fourth floor. Julia said, "We want apartment four-A."
She could "see" the layout of it, too—three bedrooms, four baths, living room, dining room, kitchen, and office. When Orion and Edda Grapolis had moved in, they'd had an extra door cut through the hallway into Orion's office so his patients could come and go anonymously, without ever stepping into the apartment.
"Shall I ring the bell," Norma asked, "or do you want to?" She stopped, and Julia knew from their few steps they must be at the apartment.
"There's a door twenty feet farther down the hall," Julia said. "It's near the window. It's to his office, but it's unmarked—"
Norma led her ahead and stopped again. Julia found the door and knocked.
The door opened at once, and Orion Grapolis's voice boomed. "Julia! It is very good to see you. Come in, come in. Who is this with you?"
Julia hadn't been in a therapist's office in seven years. Her stomach was tight, and she had an urge to run, although she wasn't sure why. Instead she settled into a large, comfortable armchair. When she'd left her last therapist, she'
d been convinced a professional could do nothing for her she couldn't do herself. But now she needed any shortcuts she could find, and that included taking a chance that Orion Grapolis and his naturalistic hypnosis could do the job.
"So you have a companion now." He moved away to sit across from her—about ten feet, she judged from his voice. "Norma, yes? She seemed worried about you."
Julia chuckled. "She must've figured something terrible was going to happen to me in here. She really thought she ought to stay, didn't she?" She liked the calm, professional feel of the room. "I'll bet she's downstairs in my apartment right now wringing her hands."
"She does not know you could see in London?"
She shook her head. "I meant it when I said you're the only one—besides Scotland Yard—who knows I witnessed Mom's murder."
"You must be very sad," Orion decided. "But I think you are angry, too."
She hesitated. Then she blurted out, "If I hadn't lost my sight, I might've been able to get help. Maybe Mom didn't have to die—" Her chest wrenched in pain.
Orion studied her and echoed back her words. "You feel guilty."
"Yes." Her voice was tormented. "Why did I go blind again? For that matter, why did I get my vision back in the first place?" She told him about her brief sight in Warsaw and then how it'd come back in London and lingered until she'd stared at the alexandrite ring her grandfather had given her. "Can you explain it to me? Surely it wasn't just a miracle or some kind of magic that made me see—"
Orion Grapolis was a small bear of a man, with a thick mustache and a big heart. He had a razor-quick intellect, too, and that, wedded with his natural kindness, had resulted in not only a compassionate man but a superior therapist. He was relieved he'd convinced Edda to delay their vacation, although he'd have the devil to pay later. After a while she'd settle down and laugh with him that he'd been sidetracked again by an interesting case. What no one seemed to fully grasp was his desire to help was more compelling to him than the intellectual stimulation of challenging psychotherapy.
"I will answer your question with a question," he said. "Tell me how you were feeling about yourself in the days and weeks before your mother's death. Would you say your confidence had grown?"
